1.09.07: Gerald Ford is Still Dead ‹ Blog

There are worse things in life than death. Have you ever spent an evening with an insurance salesman?
Woody Allen

Gerald Ford is Still Dead

January 9, 2007

So, the holidays are finally over and the New Year is upon us like a sadistic cat upon a crippled, terrorized baby mouse... erm, sorry. (Resolution #1: Watch those wicked metaphors.) I had a pretty fun holiday, particularly when NEWS FLASH! NEWS FLASH! GERALD FORD IS STILL DEAD! DON’T WORRY, WE’LL BE COVERING THE FUNERAL AND ITS AFTERMATH ALL DAY AND ALL NIGHT FOR THE NEXT SIX MONTHS, IN CASE ANYONE HEARS SCRATCHING SOUNDS FROM HIS COFFIN OR SOMEONE WAKES UP FROM A COMA AND IS ALL, “WHAAA? GERALD FORD IS DEAD? OH MY GOD, HE WAS SUCH A YOUNG OLD GUY!” HANG ON—NOPE, SORRY, NEVER MIND. THOUGHT WE SAW THE COFFIN WOBBLE. WE NOW RETURN YOU TO YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAMMING.

That was bitchy, I know, but I’ve had it up to here with this ridiculously drawn-out funeral coverage. Presidential deaths make news, I get that, but come on—it’s been days, other stuff is happening now, a funeral’s a funeral, life moves on. In fact, if you think the above was in bad taste, you should hear the things I’ve been saying to the TV this week. Notoriously clumsy president + sentimental funeral coverage = lots of FBI agents taking off their headphones in the unmarked surveillance van parked opposite my house, looking at each other in startled horror and saying, “We can get her for treason now, right?...”

Anyway. The holidays, as I was saying, were quite entertaining—and I’m not just saying that because my husband gave me a Mac and a video iPod and a bunch of iTunes gift cards. I’m saying that because the holidays are a time of warmth and love and—oh, what the hell, I’m just in it for the goodies! I now know, though, to watch my mouth around my husband and not daydream out loud about all the cool gadgets I’d like to own, as he’s likely to go out and buy them for me. If he’s not careful, I’m going to become accustomed to this life of luxury, and I will start expecting him to bring me presents every night and lock him out of the house if he tries to enter empty-handed. (And no, ladies, he doesn’t have any brothers; I nabbed the only one, you’re all out of luck. Ha ha.)

One of the highlights of the Christmas festivities was when, during the gift-giving celebrations at my in-laws’ house, the Smallest In-Law was presented with a largish package which turned out to contain an adorable little pink sweatshirt (from the same university her mother goes to). My niece is a very polite and generally patient little girl, but this was just too much. She took one look, turned around to face the rest of the family, planted her arms on the coffee table in perfect Donald Trump style, and—glowering at us all from under a truly thunderous brow—bellowed, “I THOUGHT THAT WAS A TOY!” And we, the cruel and unfeeling adults, laughed at her adorable glowering, and she got scared and started crying. She’s only three, after all.

(Hee. I’m listening to The Beatles’ “I Call Your Name,” and there’s so much cowbell going on, and now I’m picturing Will Ferrell and Ringo Starr getting all competitive over the rhythm section and John Lennon trying valiantly to ignore their squabbling while he sings, and Paul McCartney trying to sing harmony but all distracted as he mulls over why he doesn’t like blonde girls with missing limbs and boy, if one of those chicks was here right now, he would take away her bedpan and make her crawl to the bathroom, that stupid bitch. Oh... wow. I think the Advil I just took might be a little bit... expired. Which would explain why I was just thisclose to downloading Kenny Rogers singing “Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Is In)”. Oy.)

I was going to make a list of resolutions for the new year, but right now it’s 8:00 AM and I’ve been up since 5:00 with cramps and the only resolution I can think of is Don’t throw up on the keyboard. Looking at my hands as I type, I see I should also make a resolution to not bite my nails anymore, but then I would probably forget to keep them trimmed to a reasonable length and they would grow too long and then I would sit down to practice guitar and not be able to play because of my nails, and then I would end up having to gnaw them off right there anyway, so why not just chew on them now? (Resolution #4: Stop with the run-on sentences, already.)